


Eye of the Beholder

by d0nquix0te



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Low Chaos (Dishonored)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0nquix0te/pseuds/d0nquix0te
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the last weekend of the month, the Hound Pits Pub receives a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the Beholder

“Have you ever seen the painting Sokolov did of Lady Boyle?” one patron asks the others sitting around him. Cecelia thinks they must be the City Watch; even off duty they have a rugged and brutal air to them that reminds her of the days during the plague. She serves them drink after drink and thinks of her sister’s smile, with the permanent gap courtesy of a Watchman’s fist. They pay well and have never caused trouble in the pub, though, so she tries to put the past in the past. 

One of the others laughs into his ale. “Don’t even know which one it is! Suppose it doesn’t much matter.”

Cecelia knows which Boyle is depicted in the painting and she knows what happened to her, but she doesn't comment. The men rarely engage her in their conversations and she’s happy for that to remain the case, as they tend to be disgusting and lewd. She knows far more about those close to the old Lord Regent than she’ll ever let on. The evening’s conversation has centered on the Boyle family and Cecelia is content to listen in while serving her patrons. 

“I know a guy who slept with Esma Boyle, you know. Says it isn’t hard to do, the tough part is getting into the estate first.”

They laugh and make rude comments, louder and louder the more they drink. On evenings such as this, when the aristocracy throws parties for its inner circles, the pub is always busy with folk who wish they had the standing to garner an invite. They drink and joke the night away and swear it’s more enjoyable than anything a prim and proper rich family could pull together. Cecelia is pleased to have the business. 

She still doesn’t think the Boyle women are particularly attractive and doesn’t understand the control they seem to hold over the male population. Unfortunately, there isn’t much else to talk about in the post-plague age, with the city still rebuilding and learning how to function properly again. Occasionally there are new Sokolov and Joplin inventions to discuss but mostly it always comes back to aristocracy gossip. 

Unlike her patrons, it isn’t the party that interests Cecelia tonight. It just so happens to be the last weekend of the month, which means the Hound Pits Pub will get a visit from its most notable regular. Cecelia serves drinks, takes coin, watches as the crowd dwindles, and waits for her arrival. 

The rowdy men of the City Watch have only just left when Callista arrives. The pub still needs a sweep and the tables need to be wiped off and there are plenty of glasses to be washed, but these are things that Cecelia can deal with later. 

It has been a windy day and Callista comes in with a gust of cool air. She pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders even as she steps inside, knobbly and calloused hands trembling from the temperature. A strand of her hair has gotten loose from the tie that holds it all together, falling into her face until she shakes it away. 

While high society throws expensive parties, these are the moments Cecelia spends days looking forward to. She hurries towards the door, smiling brightly. “Come in, you look so cold.”

“I would have been here sooner if the waters were not so troubled,” Callista says. She shivers with the leftover chill, but returns Cecelia’s smile and seems to relax with the gesture, switching from the Empress’s tutor to just Callista. 

Cecelia locks the pub’s front door behind her, closed for the night. “I’ll make you something warm to drink and we can take it upstairs.”

“You’re a gift,” Callista replies. 

The praise still makes Cecelia’s cheeks redden, despite how much of it she’s heard over the last couple months. All praise from Callista is high praise. 

When the drinks are done, they head upstairs, turning the lights out as they go. The pub becomes dark and quiet but not unnervingly so as it used to be during the quarantine, when any light at all or sound carrying across the water could mean their demise. Now it only marks the ending of a day, a time for rest. 

As manager of the pub, Cecelia has her own room. It’s the one Havelock stayed in before, which made it weird for the first while, but the privacy it gives them quickly became more persuasive than that. They change into their bedclothes and sit together, sipping their drinks and huddling close. 

“Emily still asks after you,” Callista says, “She would visit herself if Corvo didn’t talk her out of it.”

Cecelia chuckles, feeling warmed by the comment. “Maybe I’ll come back to the tower with you sometime. It must be a wonderful place to live.”

“It would be more wonderful to have you there.” Callista leans into Cecelia’s side, relaxing with a sigh. She has always held herself upright and proper, Cecelia knows, and she imagines it must be exhausting. While Cecelia can still hardly curtsy, Callista has always been perfectly poised. It’s nice to see her relax properly, when it’s just the two of them behind closed doors. 

“If I could paint,” Cecelia says, raising a hand to run her fingers through Callista’s undone hair. “I would paint a portrait of you like this.”

“Disheveled, you mean?” Callista replies, shaking her head slightly against Cecelia’s shoulder.

“You’re beautiful. You always are, but especially now, at the end of the day when there’s no etiquette to follow." 

Callista smiles. “You are one of a kind, you know that?” She sits back up so she can plant a gentle kiss on Cecelia’s lips, drinking in the taste of cider and shivering when Cecelia's hand drops from her hair to trail down her back.

Their half-empty glasses collide while their attention is focused on each other, filling the room with the sound of clinking glass. Laughing, they pull apart and set the cups to the side, safe on the bedside table, before returning to one another. 

As the cold wind howls outside, they find warmth in each other, and spend the night in each other’s arms.


End file.
